


A Long-Awaited Wish Come True

by katmarajade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: wizard_love, F/M, First Dates, Hogwarts, Librarians, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 18:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katmarajade/pseuds/katmarajade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years and years of loving her from afar, Argus finally gets his chance to take Irma on a romantic first date on Valentine's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Long-Awaited Wish Come True

In Argus Filch's world, Valentine's Day deserved a hearty _Bah Humbug!_ and little else. He'd spent his years, young to middling and perhaps a bit past that, watching witches, wizards, Muggles, and Squibs pair off. It was all hearts in eyes; pink, lacy cards; rubbish poetry; and an obnoxious overload of _I love yous_. 

It could be said, maybe, perhaps, that his scorn stemmed from envy. He scoffed at the notion, growled at a passing imbecile of a student, and muttered the mere thought balderdash. Then he returned to his quiet quarters and sat at his small, wooden table sipping a pot of peppermint tea with a sprig of parsley. Tired from another day of thankless work, chilled from the damp castle air and his own aging bones, and alone, as always, he couldn't help but think perhaps he was. Jealous. Just a bit. 

It would be nice to come home to his quarters, their quarters, and have someone to whom he could properly grouse about the children, the mess, the endless work, the horrid toys. It might be nice to share a pot of tea. He never could finish off a pot alone, and he'd never gotten the knack of brewing less than a full pot. He thought perhaps it might be nice to have a woman's touch about the place. Maybe some nattier curtains or some of those utterly pointless porcelain whatsits that ladies favoured sitting about on shelves and tables. It might be lovely to see another tea cup, another toothbrush, another dressing gown. 

It wasn't that he'd not thought about it. Rather, his opportunities thus far in life had been quite limited. Not many reputable upstanding ladies deigned to fancy cantankerous old caretakers like him. And he did have a thing for the classy ones. Proper and lady-like, pearls and lace, none of that vulgarity that so many women flaunted these days.

He knew of one woman, a real woman, a true lady. Irma Pince was proper and upright, strong and wise, lovely and demure, but with fire blazing underneath. She protected her books with unrivalled passion and took meticulous care of her library, just like he took care of the castle. Her fierce devotion to the school, to proper procedures, to etiquette, to tradition—she was a woman after his own heart. 

He'd been stumblingly, stupidly in love with her for years with naught to show for it. She was a goddess—powerful, brilliant, and beautiful. 

Attempts had been made to woo her, oh yes. He'd invested an embarrassingly large sum into a KwikQuills course, sure that if he could only harness the tiniest bit of magical ability hidden inside him somewhere, that he'd be worthy of her attentions. He checked and rechecked the fourth floor near the library no fewer than four times a day, lest some putrescent pubescent cause a mess. It was his job to keep her safe, keep the grounds clear of potential pitfalls, keep the floors clean and clear, so she would never slip on a spill or trip over a tossed-aside Fanged Frisbee. She almost had done a few years back, which was the main reason those awful contraptions were at the top of his (rather long) list of forbidden items. 

He would never dream of intruding on her personal space, though his keys afforded him access to all rooms, her quarters included, were he a more unsavoury kind. However, he did make sure to sweep the hall near her rooms regularly, and Mrs Norris kept a close watch over the area. 

When he polished the tables and swept the floors of the library at night, he often left a blossom or two, nicked from the greenhouses with Professor Sprout's tacit permission, on Irma's desk. Some days he left a small bit of chocolate, always wrapped up well and on a bit of cloth, lest it dirty the table or attract ants. She never said a word, but he'd never seen the candy in the rubbish bin, and she had begun keeping a tiny glass vase on her desk, just big enough for the one or two blooms that he left. 

It was Mrs Norris who pushed the issue. She saddled up to Irma one day, the thirteenth of February to be exact. Mrs Norris hated everyone, Argus excepted, so it was especially shocking when he walked into the library (for the third time that day) to see his dearest partner in trouble-spotting cuddling up to the woman of his dreams. Irma looked uncharacteristically delighted to be besieged by a huge, dust-coloured feline in her library, which expressly forbade animals of all kinds, save Professor McGonagall's Animagus form. 

It was enough to throw any man for a bit of a loop. He walked in further to see what in the world had the two loveliest ladies of his acquaintance chumming in the library. Then she smiled at him, soft, sweet, lovely, and genuine … she smiled at him. At _him_! 

Two blistering moments of cotton-mouthed nothing were followed by the most ungraceful dinner invitation that the world had ever experienced. He realised what he'd done and was properly horrified. He grabbed Mrs Norris, hoping her pale fur would mask his own beet-red face. With an awkward bit of blubbering, a total lack of actual words, and a stumbling step backwards, he tried to flee. 

"Yes."

He froze, staring at her quizzically. "Pardon?"

"Yes, I'd love to have dinner with you tomorrow evening. Is seven o'clock agreeable?"

He blinked and continued staring wordlessly until he felt Mrs Norris's claws sink through the wool of his jacket sleeves. 

"Oh, yes. Yes? Yes. Yes!" He cleared his throat and tried again, "I'll call at yours at seven."

They stood in silence for a moment more, a tiny smile quirking at Irma's lips. 

"Right, well, I've work to be done. I'll see you tomorrow, Argus." She tipped her head, lovely and polite, and he felt something inside his heart explode into a million pieces, warming him from head to toe.

♥♥♥ ♥♥♥ ♥♥♥

He woke the next morning from a dream so realistic that he was actually surprised when he found himself alone in his bed. He sighed, debating whether or not he had the energy to take advantage of his body's extremely interested state. It meant getting out of his cosy bed, but with the dream still lush and fresh in his mind, he made the quick decision to make a run for the shower. He draped his oft-mended blue dressing gown over himself in an effort to protect his bits from the effects of the morning castle chill.

Twisting on the hot water, he hopped from foot to foot to keep his feet off the cold tile. He climbed into the shower, pulling the curtain closed and sighing contentedly at the steamy heat. He only let himself do this in the shower now, because it made too much of a mess anywhere else, and he spent quite enough time cleaning. Taking a deep breath, he let himself fall back into the dream's fantasy, pulling lightly, and succumbing to the intoxicating effects of Irma. 

She's a picture of grace and class, even dressed down for the night. Her long dark hair is twisted into a perfect, tight coil at the nape of her neck, the interspersed silver strands glittering in the soft moonlight from the adjacent window. She wears a proper nightgown, floor-length white cotton with a high collar, the scalloped edges brushing her graceful throat. Her grey eyes sparkle with happiness, happiness at being here with him. She climbs on top of him, the length of her nightgown creeping up her pale thighs one slow centimetre at a time until the entire ghostly white beauty of her legs is exposed. 

With one small, dainty hand, she reaches down and brushes against him, hard and aching from just the sight of her. A tiny, almost shy, smile touches her mouth, and she holds him in place so she can slide down onto his member, her tight, warm inner embrace making him groan with pleasure. She moves on top of him, setting an unhurried pace that has them both yearning for more. 

He lets his work-callused fingertips trace absent patterns on her thighs as they rise up and fall back against him, delighting in how they spread and tighten with the movement. Beautiful, secret skin that has never seen daylight, all for him, to touch, to hold. He traces a blue vein and bites back a moan as she pauses mid-rhythm to clamp down on him teasingly. 

She's a glorious sight above him. It's a heady dichotomy: from the waist up, she's the picture of prim and proper, high-necked collar, pure white gown, not a hair out of place. From the waist down she's a goddess, long legs free of their daily confines, every secret inch of her bared to him. On a whim he reaches up and begins to pull at the sturdy, black pins that hold her long hair so perfectly in place. He works his way slowly around the twisted ring of hair, pulling out one pin each time she sinks down onto him and setting it in a neat pile with each upward motion. When the last pin is removed, the black and silver hair uncoils, spilling down her back and over her shoulders in a stunning waterfall. He touches the ends, tugging oh-so-lightly—it wouldn't do to hurt her. Then he stills her movements and gently twists them around, pushing her down against the mattress, carefully keeping his hand behind her head to soften the impact. 

She's splayed out below him and his arms tremble as he holds himself up to get a good look at her. Her hair is a gorgeous mess beneath her, her face flushed a lovely pink, shining with exertion and pleasure. He pushes back into her warmth and, lowering himself to balance on his forearm, he lets his hand slip between them, curling into the liquid heat of her, brushing her most sensitive spots, the secret places he knows make her shiver. He notes her change in breathing with no small amount of satisfaction. She lets out tiny, breathy whimpers, so wonderfully unlike her usual prim tone. Her cheeks flush an even deeper rose and her mouth drops open with a delicious little _oh!_ as she tightens and goes boneless beneath him, squeezing him in a perfect, familiar rhythm. 

He lets her come down, drops a light kiss against her still-slack mouth, and then begins thrusting in earnest, feeling the familiar tingle of his own orgasm building. His eyes fall shut but open when he feels her warm fingers brushing tenderly against his cheek, tickling at his beard. When he meets her eyes, warm, grey, beautiful, it pushes him over the edge. So lovely, so perfect, so good …

Argus blinked, eyelashes sticking from the shower spray, and watched as all evidence of his perfect fantasy swirled down the drain. He allowed himself one more moment of wishful dreaming, then sighed, and began the practical aspects of his shower routine. 

He wondered sometimes if she'd be like his dreams—warm and tender, grey eyes only for him, soft feminine touches. Perhaps if dinner went well, someday he would get a chance to find out. Irma was a proper lady and deserved a proper courtship. She deserved fancy dinners with candles, flowers, and wine. She deserved to be treated as the precious, beautiful, transcendent paragon of grace she was. He was going to do his damndest to give her everything she so richly deserved. He had to prove his worth and his good intention if he ever hoped to gain his most longed-after treasure. 

The day was spent tidying up after mud-tracking miscreants who delighted in soiling his clean floors. The little brats had never had to scrub a floor without magic and had no concept of how much work went into keeping a castle clean. 

He skipped the rest of his pre-dinner rounds, not even caring whether the childish cretins wreaked havoc in his absence. There'd be time enough to deal with their nonsense tomorrow. However, he made his usual quick sweep of the library corridor to make sure it was acceptably tidy before heading back to his quarters. He was pleased to see that Irma wasn't in her usual spot—she must be off getting ready for the evening. The thought left him slightly more breathless than usual and a swarm of butterflies began to stir inside him. 

Mrs Norris stuck close, eyeing him quizzically as he tried on his finest. Struggling with the trousers, he irritably found them a bit tight. He tucked in his shirt, starched and ironed twice. Though, as he looked carefully, he wondered if he might not want to make it thrice, just to be safe. 

He carefully combed some of the fancy hair oil he'd bought in Hogsmeade through his thin, grey hair. He patiently worked through each snarl and snag until it was shining and nearly smooth. He nodded at his reflection with satisfaction, glad again not to have a talking mirror in his bathroom. Working the shave cream into a healthy lather, he cheerfully covered his face. He hadn't bothered to shave his stubble since the last time he'd made an ill-fated attempt at asking Irma to dinner, only to be tricked by a couple of Gryffindor horrors and ending up with boils on his face. He'd never even made it to the library. This time, he vowed, would be different. Those horrid ginger clones could not touch him today of all days, when everything was going his way. 

He wiped the last bit of lather off his chin, turning his head from side to side. Whistling a cheery tune, he slapped some of his finest aftershave, the one in the tiny, dusty, rarely-touched glass bottle, onto his cheeks, pleased at how his face seemed to carry a bit more colour and health. 

He turned to Mrs Norris who purred in approval, winding herself around his legs. He smiled, absently brushing cat hair from his trousers, and began the arduous process of knotting his tie, his gnarled fingers stiff and unpractised. The tie was a red and green tartan, bright and bold. He wasn't sure if it matched properly, but it was the only proper tie he owned, so he hoped for the best. After a good half dozen tries, he got the knot just so and pulled it up to his neck. 

He pulled on his jacket, his finest, perfectly pressed for the occasion. It was tan and well-fitted with tweed elbow patches that he'd sewed on years back and a few fraying spots on the sleeve and trim, but all-in-all, it seemed a suitable evening jacket. 

Leaving ample time to account for any horrid surprises left by the students, he left his quarters at 6:39. It was surprisingly quiet in the corridors, only a few gaggles of giggling girls and one scowling prefect doing a fine job of yelling at a pair of rule-breakers. Without any missteps or mishaps along the way, he arrived at her door nine minutes before seven. He paced the halls, practising his greeting and reminding himself to add in a little bow. Poised and ready when his ancient pocket watch struck seven, he took a deep, steadying breath and knocked. 

The door opened almost immediately, which made him think that she'd been sitting nearby, waiting for him. He puffed his chest out a bit, tried to hold himself to best advantage, and readied his most winning smile. 

All the detailed, meticulous preparations on how to smile were for naught when she appeared in the doorway. 

Her salt and pepper hair was pulled back in its typical bun, but it was looser somehow and the hair around her face was not pulled back as tightly. As beautiful as ever, he thought she looked even warmer and softer like this. She wore a plain, black dress with lace on the collar and cuffs and a pretty, rose-coloured brooch that lay tantalisingly over her throat. 

He felt his breath catch and stared in mute amazement before breaking into a ridiculously over-sized and possibly inappropriate grin. His reaction seemed to please her though, as she dipped her head and wrapped a sheer, peach-coloured shawl around her shoulders. The blush of her cheek made him glow. It was something he'd fantasized about many times, but he had never realised the feeling of power and pride that one achieved by making a pretty woman blush. 

He held out his arm, the gesture a bit stiff and unpractised, but appreciated nonetheless, and he led them through a maze of familiar lesser-used corridors, thinking it best to avoid ruffian reprobates if at all possible. Why ruin a wonderful evening? He felt like a king with such a grand woman on his arm, and he walked taller, shoulders back and chest out, amazed at his good fortune. 

With giddy anticipation, he awaited her delight when she saw the surprise he had in store. 

One of the benefits (and curses really) of being caretaker of such a castle was that he saw everything. Many things he would much rather not have witnessed. As such, most of the staff unofficially owed him quite a number of "favours". 

This particular favour was called in from Hagrid, earned by not instantly telling the Headmaster about a truly terrible attempt at cross-breeding on the outskirts of the grounds. (He'd given Hagrid an hour—tops—to say good-bye to his "dearies" before informing Headmaster Dumbledore, who wisely intervened.) 

Stepping out into the crisp February evening, he nearly held his breath waiting for her reaction; he was not disappointed. 

"Oh my!" came the anticipated gasp, her wide-eyed, stunned smile more than he could have imagined. Leading her gallantly forward, Argus helped her into the carriage, polished and shining. Other than transporting grubby-handed gripers between the train station and the castle at the beginning and end of term, they didn't see much use. 

Hagrid had outdone himself, even placing cheerful wreaths of flowers around the Thestrals' necks. Argus paused to think it might look somewhat odd to those who couldn't see the creatures, floating bits of flora dragging carriages. He wondered briefly if Irma saw Thestrals. A survivor of the war, he thought it unlikely that she'd escaped the terror and loss of those days without earning the bitter sight; however, it seemed an inappropriate question for a first date. 

Irma settled onto the cushion, motioning for Argus to sit next to her. He veritably leapt to comply, and she spread the warm, tartan blanket over their legs as the carriage jerked slightly and began its leisurely journey towards Hogsmeade. 

They chatted amiably for awhile and enjoyed a bit of companionable silence as they took in the view of crystalline-trimmed fir trees and the magical, frost-tinged landscape. The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a secluded restaurant just off Hogsmeade's high street. The reservation here was courtesy of a favour called in from Flitwick, who knew the proprietor well. Better, in fact, than Argus had needed to witness firsthand. 

Carefully, Argus assisted her down the steps, across the icy pavement, and into the cosy restaurant, enjoying her pleased expression, flushed cheeks, and rare smile. 

They were seated immediately and a rather stuffy host poured them samples from a posh bottle of Elven ice wine far outside Argus' price range that the host assured them was compliments of the owner himself. Irma's impressed reaction caused Argus to nod instinctively, and they soon had full crystal goblets in front of them as they perused the menu. 

A meat and potatoes man, Argus found the high-end entrees baffling. He was unused to fancy food, generally trending towards steak and kidney pies, bangers and mash, and whatever other hearty fare the house elves served him. 

The server arrived and politely asked for their orders. Irma asked for something with an incomprehensible name that Argus thought might be pasta … or perhaps fish. When the server turned to him, Argus frantically scanned the list and pointed to one at random. Leaning in discreetly, the server politely clarified that he'd ordered fish egg and eel salad. The server then quietly offered that he'd heard that one of the house specials, a fillet with roasted potatoes and vegetables was particularly tasty this evening. 

Flushed with embarrassment, Argus nodded gruffly and the server, with a polite "Very good, sir," slipped quietly away. 

Irma politely pretended not to have overheard his gastronomical foible and began telling him the story of how she'd arrived at her position as librarian, about which he'd inquired just prior to the server's arrival. 

The tall tapered candle on their table dwindled slowly as they conversed comfortably, enjoying three courses and most of the bottle of wine. Flushed from the wine, the rich food, the warm cosiness of the restaurant, and the closeness to Irma, Argus couldn't help but appreciate the way the candlelight played across her delicate skin and danced in the silver of her hair. It bathed her in a warm glow and made her seem even lovelier than ever. 

Impulsively, because being near her made him feel like a brash young man again, he grabbed her hand and pulled her up, steering her to a small space of open floor. She giggled, the girlish sound that he hated so much from students a symphony of joy coming from her. The soft music in the background guided them in a slow, purposeful dance. Argus was not much of a dancer, but he couldn't help but want to hold this woman close, twirl her around, and revel in the soft, pleased, sultry look that bending her in a slow dip earned him. 

As the music faded, he pulled her very close, resting his forehead against hers, watching her mouth and almost groaning when he saw the flash of pink tongue wetting her lips. There was a long moment, frozen in perfect anticipation, as they maintained eye contact, neither moving, breath erratic. 

Argus felt blood pounding through his veins, coursing fiercely like the Thames during the springtime thaw. As his heart beat a wild staccato rhythm, he didn't think he'd ever felt so alive. All he could see, all he could smell, all he could feel was Irma, right in front of him, so close he could almost …

A loud clatter jerked them from their moment, and they looked over to see a flustered server shovelling broken plates and spilled food onto her dropped serving platter. Frustrated, Argus couldn't help but feel a bit let down. He'd lost his moment. 

Then she looked at him, a heavy gaze full of things to come, and he knew he'd get his second chance. 

Again they lost themselves in conversation as they enjoyed a decadent crème brulee garnished with luscious strawberries cut into heart shapes. Normally this was the sort of foolishness that Argus harrumphed and disdained, but he found his grouchy scepticism forever altered by the sweet look that Irma gave him when she saw the beautifully-plated romantic dessert and the erotic drip of sticky, red juice that stained her mouth and made him squirm. Only when the candle burned down to a tiny stub and finally flickered out did they look up with surprise to find the room had mostly emptied. Employees were cleaning up, taking away dishes and blowing out candles. 

He helped her up and tried to place her shawl over her shoulders. She let him assist her with a smile, and then discreetly rearranged his awkward attempt. 

Argus settled the cheque, which was much smaller than it ought to have been, probably thanks to Flitwick and the restaurant owner. The server informed them that he'd had their carriage brought around and bowed politely, a novelty from which Argus couldn't help but get a thrill. Argus happily slipped him a few extra sickles for his trouble, especially the gracious help with the menu that had prevented him from a rather disastrous suppertime surprise.

They left the warm candlelight of the restaurant, shivering as the silvery moonlit night air hit their faces. Argus almost tripped on the pavement, because he couldn't keep his eyes off of Irma. She giggled lightly, which made him chuckle as well, and they clung to each other a bit more than absolutely necessary as they slowly navigated the icy ground together. 

The ride back to the castle was quiet, but very comfortably so. Argus's heart slammed in his chest as she kept shooting him lidded glances and tiny smiles that were equal parts perfectly demure and intoxicatingly seductive. 

He could taste it in the air, the sticky, amazing, stomach-dropping, belly-swirling, heady, giddy, silly madness that glazed his eyes, gnawed at his gut, and pulled the corners of his mouth into a rusty but genuine grin, dopey but utterly sincere. This was what everyone prattled on about, this bumbling craziness that made a man feel as if he could fly whenever she deigned to smile at him. 

He was reasonably sure that there would be not spouting of sonnets in his future, but when she looked up at him, he thought maybe, if she were to ask it of him, he could sing her virtues, less articulately perhaps than Shakespeare or Byron but with no less heart or sincerity. 

The walk back to her quarters was meanderingly slow, as if by mutual agreement they were trying to extend the evening as long as possible. When they arrived at her door, they paused, the silence heavy, slow, and lovely and only slightly coloured with the wonderful, heart-pounding awkwardness that comes just before a long-awaited first kiss. 

Irma's face tilted up ever-so-slightly and Argus couldn't keep his eyes off her mouth, pink and perfect and so close. He leaned in, at first unconsciously, and then with greater boldness when he noticed her tacit approval of his advances. Her cheeks flushed and he was so close he could feel her warm breath on his face. 

Her eyes fluttered shut and, mesmerised by her eyelashes, he took a fortifying breath and touched his lips, so softly, so tentatively against hers. Irma's mouth responded immediately, pushing back against his, not hard but firmly enough to show him that this was exactly what she wanted. Trying to keep from grinning (he had other more important plans for his mouth right now), Argus kissed her deeply, wordlessly expressing his adoration, and lost himself in the incredible sensation of Irma's soft lips and the wetness of her gently exploring tongue against his. 

When she finally pulled away, her face was flushed and her eyes brighter than he'd ever seen. His answering grin threatened to crack his face completely in half. 

"Good night, Argus. Thank you for a truly lovely evening," she said, her voice rather breathless. 

Argus could not even come up with a proper verbal response, just nodded enthusiastically, his enormous smile still affixed to his face. As the door clicked shut and he turned to walk back to his own rooms, the grin grew impossibly larger. A quick glance around ensured there were no students lying in wait, and Argus punched his fists into the air with ecstatic abandon. A spring in his step and a beaming smile in place, he walked back to his quarters with his head held high.


End file.
